A great close game, tied when Webbo yorked Homerton's last man with them needing one for victory. Earlier the Webbmaster knocked a 'daddy hundred' to get Pacific up to a respectable 192 while the rest of the team floundered. Oh and he kept tidily for most of the innings before coming on to bowl too. Man of the match decision was not particularly difficult.

Other key talking points:

- Nuggsy takes four-for in fine opening spell

- Paul Davis's all American arm leads to crucial run out

- Kieran tries being a wicketkeeper for the first time, and likes it

- four golden ducks across the two innings (seven ducks in total)

- 17 bowlers used

Last year I wrote some generic words on a strokemaker with Jon Webley very much in mind. After yesterday's big innings it seems fitting to celebrate Pacific's most sumptuous strokemaker. So here we go...(Kieran).

The Strokemaker is a peerless 'feel-good' purveyor– a serene technician whose silken craft has a therapeutic effect akin to a rub down in a Thai massage parlour but with none of the tawdry connotations.

At the crease the strokemaker's movement is lithe and pure. Perfectly balanced on his bat as he takes guard, even this ritual becomes a thing of performance art. The sound of his bat on ball produces a continual resonant timbre, sweet relief from the discordant sounds created by lesser players. Wielding the bat with the grace of a harpist plucking strings, his innings are a series of pitch-perfect musical notes like listening to a favourite tune.

He harnesses rather than dismantles an attack, nullifies the efforts of the fast bowler in a smooth transfer of weight to the back foot, a balletic pirouette, a heavy short ball creamed away to an accompaniment of oohs and aahs as spectator's muscles relax and minds clear. The strokemaker imparts the ball with his very best qualities, sending the cherry away on a graceful journey to the boundary which you hope won't be interrupted by an opposition fielder. Seeing the ball hit the rope is like an electrical circuit being connected, rousing old men mid from mid-summer slumber and up out of their plastic chairs. Opponents tap their thigh in applause, admiring and envying this beautifully natural talent.

The strokemaker's goodness fires up the brain's reward centres, sending mood-boosting dopamine sloshing round the brain and creating peak moments of joy, comparable in quality to a child eating sweets or an adult taking cocaine. He is a human balm who lubricates the cogs of the club machine and sends us home refreshed in spirit, bringing us back in touch with similar moments of simple joy; the day we achieved stabiliser-free balance on a bicycle, that first stolen kiss on the banks of the Thames, embracing our first child in our arms.